The Fox and the Tramp
by Akai Sera
Summary: FoxKit!Reader-Insert: A oneshot commission for jamthefox on deviantArt. The cold has overtaken you, snow holding you captive in the receding daylight. No one stops for a lone fox that can't make a sound... Then he comes, the bold, bright Frenchman who says he's going to help you. But when you awake it becomes clear that you are helping each other to get by.


A bone-deep chill, burning even as it rendered your extremities numb, was the only thing that could be felt from the frozen white below you. Even the afternoon sunlight shining through the grey of the loitering cloud cover couldn't warm your skin enough to combat the effect of the snow that surrounded your still form. Eyes barely open to rosy slits and your lashes fringed with frost, you watched shadows retreat along the snowbank across the iced and empty road.

The painful twitch of every movement made rising an ambitious aspiration. Steam unfurled from your breath, the only part of your being that felt warm as it rolled over your dark paws. You knew then that you'd been abandoned, left for dead in the frozen land where only merciless bipedal humans were free to tread. The red-orange fur on your cheeks was dusted with powder-snow that twirled in the air like motes of dust at the twitching of your whiskers.

Wet, slush-buffered footsteps drew your attention, though you didn't bother to try and look up this time; five pairs of similar feet had passed you without a glance already. Now that your tail and rear legs were nearly cocooned in crisp, refrozen snow, your chances felt no better. A shadow fell over you, darkening the already dim view of a pair of black rubber galoshes. The figure who owned the shadow leaned down, garnering you the sight of a white, ruffled necktie and powder-blue vest.

"Je vais vous aider, mon petit renard,"1 an airy voice muttered as warm hands drew beneath you, scooping you into the arms of the Frenchman whose blonde hair bounced at his shoulders as he hurried along the path. "Don't worry," he insisted. The warmth and voice lulled your mind to rest along with your tired body.

Dawn, and the red-crowned sun peeked over a white-painted windowsill at your bundled form. Green knit cloth, just itchy enough in its woolenness to goad you awake, was tucked beneath your curled body and over all but your narrow muzzle and orange and white face. Your upper body felt overheated, while your feet were ice from the dewclaws down. You yawned, pink tongue turning up like that of other canines, and blinked your peach-blossom eyes rapidly, unsure of the white, frilled room with its powder blue furniture.

There were plush, caricature animals along a shelf. Pressed against the wall was a barred crib that reminded you of a cage, and green star stickers littered the ceiling, a scarce glow dribbling from them into the sunrise's rose-colored light. A picture frame, something you'd never seen the likes of, was propped up on the painted surface of a dresser, encasing and displaying a portrait that looked much like a father and son. The man in the photograph was the same blonde who'd saved you who knew how long ago.

This was a human dwelling, off limits as your father would say. Well, where was he now to protect you from this? Where had any of your family run to when the snows had separated you? Wandering was verboten2, but still you'd ventured out, intrigued by the glimpse of thatched roofing from over the deep, lively green of pine treetops. And now you paid for it with the chill that was only just vanishing with its ache and leaving behind a rattling cough that brought the blonde-haired bypasser rushing in to fuss over you.

France, he was called, according to the houseguests who trailed him hesitantly. Also Francis, Francypants and Bloody Git, which sounded like odd names... You laid your head on your outstretched paws and watched the three nations interact curiously, the three varying in blondeness but all at about the same level of maturity. After a moment of jest, Francis knelt beside your windowsill, taking the folded ends of the green scarf you occupied in his fingers to carry you like a small, furry parcel.

As you were whisked from the chilly glass and cozy heater, the green-eyed member of the trio, called Britain and Iggy by the louder man in the pilot's jacket, grumbled something with a sigh. "I would never have pegged you for a man with an animal loving side. You always seem too busy chasing women- and men- to bother with familial relationships anyway." Something about his words drew your somewhat foggy mind back to the father-son portrait... Francis raised a carefully groomed eyebrow at his comely-eyebrowed frenemy, shooting back, "I love all things that are beautiful. And to protect a thing one loves is a man's duty, non?" He said this with a sad tone that alarmed his companions, but a flip of his long hair and a soft laugh later he'd convinced them to say nothing.

Britain and the American both turned to go and glimpsed the picture frame before realizing what this room was. You didn't understand why they paused and gave a look to the Frenchman before leading the way out to the living room and past the door of a room decorated with maple leaf print and hockey memorabilia. "Matthew called," caterpillar-brows offered with something that wasn't quite a smile. "He's doing well. But like this ungrateful git," he snapped, flicking America on the head, "He's at that stage where he wants to be on his own and living independently. I mean, we've all invited him to World Meetings, but Canada never makes an appearance..." Gently but with a twitching motion Francis lowered you to the right arm of a chair, sighing, "Yes, well she is not Matthew. I don't expect gratitude, but I'll settle for companionship, mes amis3."

Settled into the curved nook cradled in the center of the chair's right arm, you nuzzled France's hand weakly as he stroked your head with a finger. "You must eat, mon renard," he insisted, all the while wearing the smile that cracked at the edges with worry. "It will help you to regain your strength and fight off this fever." As he stirred a bowl of steaming, cloudy liquid that smelled of poultry and cream, the two nations who'd followed him into the softly colored room of memories took seats quietly at opposite corners of the living area, each looking anywhere but at the focused Frenchman.

Bringing the thick broth to you via a plastic-bowled spoon the same blue as the walls of Matthew's former nursery, France held beneath the shakily-gripped utensil his blue shawl, letting the soup drip onto it as you drank slowly. Warm, careful hands drew near and back as he relayed your meal, ferrying the spoon from bowl to mouth in silence. The others were hushed, poised and watching curiously as the man who appeared as a regnard missing his kits dabbed at your muzzle and fur with his favorite shawl. "I'll call Matthew tomorrow, and we'll talk. Set up a day to meet. Perhaps he'll help me nurse Remy here," he explained, the tension in his shoulders dropping away visibly.

After a long period in which the only sound consisted of breathing and your own yips as France patted along your back to check for injuries, the man scooped you into his warm arms as though welcoming home a long absent member of the family. "Mon petit renard, merci,4" the man muttered, holding you close while the soup and comfort drove away the fever that had settled over you during the night. "Merci de me rappeler de ce genre d'amour.5"

Translations:

1 I'm going to help you, my little fox.

2 forbidden.

3 my friends.

4 My little fox, thank you.

5 Thank you for reminding me of this kind of love.


End file.
